Living in London means the whole world is always within reach. Every culture, sound, and voice finds its place in this city’s ever-shifting mosaic.

Being Indian already carries that same spirit—moving through a land where food, language, and attire shift as seamlessly as the landscape itself. It teaches you to embrace difference, to see how diversity can still be threaded together by a shared humanity.

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This music journal is an exploration of that spirit—where folk meets funk across Arab, Central Asian, and Caucasian traditions. I don’t use the word countries here, because every soundtrack feels boundary-defying, alive with influences that ripple far beyond geography.

Some songs hold a nostalgic, gritty, tape-recorded texture—like being a fly on the wall in Beyoğlu in the 70s. You’re there as life unfolds, as ordinary people move through ordinary days, while the music quietly carries you from Marrakech to Cairo, to a forgotten Lycian island along Türkiye’s southern Aegean coast.

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This is music as a time capsule—transporting you to people and places you’ve never met, yet somehow feel familiar and warm.

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A little me, in the big blue of this Aegean bay along the Turkish riviera. This bay is a sapphire gem along the ancient Lycian coast, facing the island of Kekova Adası. Here lies the sunken city of Simena, watched over by a Byzantine castle.

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A village only accessible by foot or by a boat between Kaş and Demre, Kaleköy is a charming little village on the Lycian coast. Turkish restaurants and fishing trade along the coasts tend to be a woman dominated industry while men mostly run farm and agriculture businesses. We were greeted by a warm and hospitable woman that ran a waterfront restaurant serving the best of the day’s catch, with rakı to wash down the gorgeous hues of the sunset.

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The Medina of Fes feels like being slingshot into another time, another life. It is the oldest medina in the world—its narrow lanes lined with madrassas, palaces, fondouks, and the famous Fes El Bali tannery. For over 1,200 years, this labyrinth has thrived with souks selling carpets, textiles, and shoes, while silversmiths and leatherworkers hammer away in hidden squares.

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‍‍On the eight-hour train from Marrakech to Fes, I stumbled on a track that caught my attention so completely I had to look up 'Volubilis'. I discovered it had once been the Berber–Roman capital of the Kingdom of Mauretania—its ruins now scattered across Morocco’s northern hills. The photos looked irresistible, a perfect escape from the Medina’s restless pace.

We found a taxi driver willing to take us there and back, and even accompany us on the tour. The journey itself was a revelation: rolling hills awash with wild poppies and saffron flowers, green and gold fields blending into mosaic-like mountains of grey and red.

Volubilis emerged like a mirage—a city in ruins, overrun with wildflowers, its ancient mosaics still whispering the rhythms of everyday life. Standing in what was once a nobleman’s living room, I felt the place pulse with memory. It was perhaps the most romantic, serendipitous landscape I’ve ever encountered—forever etched in my mind.

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One evening, I followed the sound of Moroccan folk music through the winding streets until it led me to a small Berber café. Long benches were filled with locals and travelers, smoking hash and sipping mint tea, while musicians played an improvised set that carried the whole room into a trance.

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Tucked into the Rif Mountains of northern Morocco, Chefchaouen is a dream in blue. Houses, shops, and restaurants are all washed in shades of indigo, forming a maze of winding alleys. A bus ride from Fes brings you here, through rolling hills dotted with olive groves, saffron fields, and bursts of wild poppies.

A food cart painted in bold colors, much like the ones back home, stands outside Koshary Abou Tarek. The restaurant is famous for serving just one dish—Egypt’s beloved koshary: a hearty mix of pastas and grains, topped with fried onions, tomato sauce, and a splash of vinegar. And yes, the man on the cart is none other than the suave Mr. Tarek himself.

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As a child, I dreamed of being an Egyptologist, and standing before the pyramids was nothing short of awe. Yet what lingered with me most was the city itself—an unexpected collage of styles: Islamic arches, Italian windows, Parisian balconies, even Brutalist towers. Cairo pulses as a crossroads of East and West, of trade and influence. My favorite places to wander were Khan El Khalili, Zamalek, and Downtown—especially the century-old Stephenson Pharmacy, a time capsule of glass jars and preserved instruments.

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Resting alabaster carvers sit outside a tourist shop on the road between the Valley of the Kings and the Temple of Hatshepsut. The Valley itself is the ancient burial ground of pharaohs from the 18th to 20th dynasties—where rulers began planning their tombs, and gathering treasures for the afterlife, the moment they ascended the throne.

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The Medina in Marrakech shows you glimpses of life and activities that have stayed the same over generations. Fruit vendors, sandwich shops, leather tanners and craftsmen selling pottery, bags and jackets in a labryinth like bazaar. You realise that while you’re there to sightsee, there are locals whose lives still begin and end in the Medina because that’s their way of life.

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